


Shadow Dance

by MahnaMahna



Series: Lilith [4]
Category: Legend (1985)
Genre: F/M, Human/Monster Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MahnaMahna/pseuds/MahnaMahna
Summary: The Dark King watches his queen dance.Distinctly lemon-flavored.
Relationships: Darkness/Lily (Legend)
Series: Lilith [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546699
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53





	Shadow Dance

She is graceful, his queen, as she dances through his halls. Her skin glows white as the flower that is her namesake, smooth and petal-soft to his touch. The thought of it alone heats his blood, knowing as he does the sweet nectar of this bloom, how heady and intoxicating the fragrance. Her scent often makes him feel drunk.

He lounges upon his throne, a massive stone sculpture sitting at the end of a pitted cave, altars stained with blood and flaming divots obscuring the path to his seat. One long leg rests across an armrest and his elbow supports him on the other, his chin in hand. Here he sits, eyes closed, but he is watching her dance.

She knows that he watches, can see his eyes in the shadows. He sees her coy glances, sees the occasional movement that can only be for his benefit, and yet he knows that she dances for herself as much as she dances for him. She is free here, his Lily.

Her hair, always long, has grown into a glistening black waterfall, full and curling past the dimples in the small of her back. He watches the ringlets as they imitate bubbling water, bouncing and flowing, and thinks of what they feel like trailing his thighs, brushing his chest and arms, between his fingers. It is always loose these days. She has not pinned it up in years.

She wears nothing but jewels and a rapturous expression, his ring upon her hand and the band of diamonds that she wore when first she danced for him draped across her chest. This too is for them both, a reminder of the first thrill of their union, the first moment of sensual contact between them. Of all the memories of that night, their first dance together is the one that remains sweet. Now she loves nothing better than knowing that she may do _whatever_ she pleases and he loves nothing better than watching her indulge as fine, sparkling diamonds brush her nudity, as they drip into the dark curls just peeking from her center, as they scrape across her breasts and tease her firm nipples while she sways.

It has been ages since he has let his lust drive him, has fed on it so, and he has never known lust like this. It burns in his veins, lends him power as he stokes it, revels in it, uses it to build hers, and build hers he does. Her desire is as strong as his own, as fiercely insatiable. She is a marvel to him.

Once he had thought to cage her, snare her, keep her by force and feed on her fear as he indulged his impulses, make sport of drawing her out despite herself. How grateful he is that his father had chided him as a fool in that moment, had tempered his instinctively violent nature, for he had been hasty and foolish indeed. Fear, _delicious_ as it is, can only be kept alive so long, and to watch her in her abandon is a pleasure most glorious of which he might have deprived himself. 

Truer than this, he is wise enough to admit, is that her lust is sweeter than her fear by far. 

Truer still, is that her lust is sweeter to him because he desires her love.

And the most sacred truth that pierces him to the depths of his dark heart is that he desires it because he loves her. He loves her with a possessive hunger that consumes his thoughts and eats at his soul in a manner heretofore unknown to him, fiercer than any obsession he has ever held. 

He had not known that he needed her, had not recognized the force of his own loneliness until she had stumbled already into his grasp, but lonely he was, and here was she, his opposite, his compliment, his mirror, his beauty. _Such_ beauty.

Her bare feet are light as she twirls, her willowy limbs bending in elegant, alluring shapes. The arc of her spine entrances him as her hair sweeps from side to side and the rosy tips of her breasts make his mouth water and his tongue curl in memory of their taste. He craves the flavor of her skin like he thirsts for rich wine, like he hungers for power. 

She dances towards his arms, as she ever does, seeks his embrace as surely as the moon rises. He is pleased by her willingness, savors how she is drawn to him, how she craves his skin in return. It is sweet to have her so _wanting_ of his love, of his lust, to feel her tender kisses across his body one moment and the vicious bite of her nails the next as she clings to him, as she refuses to let him go. How fierce she is in her passion for him, how satisfying it is to satisfy her need.

His eyes open to watch her round the gaping doorway to the throne room, still leaping and spinning, maneuvering deftly past the irregularities in the stonework. She barely glances into a pit heaped with bones and other remains, swirling past it without so much as a twitch of the smile on her face. 

This too pleases him, how accustomed she has become to his world, how the gore of it disturbs her less and less as time passes. He hopes one day to see her kill for him, something more than a rabbit, like she had convinced him she would do the night they’d met. His fondest wish is to see her drenched in blood, smiling at him in that brilliant way which shone so brightly from her eyes that he thought he must know what the sun looked like after all.

He watches her approach him, her slim frame in the flickering light dazzling him more than the jewels adorning it. His hand drops to the arm of his throne as his head straightens, as she finally meets his burning gaze and holds it as she dances. 

The soft swell of her hips distracts his eyes and he allows them to linger as she turns and his hands twitch, eager to grip them, eager to grasp at the rounded curve of her bottom, the petite, feminine plumpness of her thighs. When he looks back to her face her eyes are laughing and there is joy in her laughter, there is desire.

Suddenly she is kneeling on the dais before him, her slender hands on his thigh, and the look in her eyes holds such devotion that he thinks of days past when the prayerful paid tribute to him here. The tribute she offers now he awaits with great anticipation and increasingly dwindling patience though he is still.

His queen is powerful, he thinks as she runs her fingertips over the skin of his abdomen, scrapes his belly with long nails as the taught muscles quiver. She nuzzles her face against his aching sex through his clothing, leaving a kiss just below the head and he groans with a slight spasm against her lips. He has been hard and ready for her since this performance began and now her cheek through the black silk and her hands crawling up his chest are a relief but not _nearly_ enough.

She is powerful in many ways.

Her skill as a sorceress is great, her potential even greater. She makes him _strong_. 

She makes him weak.

If she tried to leave, he knows he would be too weak to let her go. The thought of eternity without her now is bleak and he would rather her scorn than her absence, though the thought of her scorn too disturbs him. He thinks of her, never willing to kneel for him again, never seeking his lips or his body for her pleasure and it sickens him. He will do anything to keep her wanting him because he wants her more than anything else. More than the world.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, his father is pleased by that. His father is the infinite, the consciousness of the Void that was, the primordial Darkness that came before, when all was still. In the beginning he encouraged his son's ambition, desired vengeance on the light for its invasion, but in recent millennia all he has desired is peace. 

Yet the king has always been restless, made as he is of the pain that forced his father into first action. In desperation the Void that was had reached into the eternal Night of the cosmos, the soul of creation, the other edge of existence, had handed her the seed of his suffering, and she had channeled that suffering into a form outside of himself and thus alleviated him of it. So Darkness was birthed.

The middle worlds came later. Humanity came later still. Before the light had reached them, Darkness had ruled all. As his territory was overtaken and regained and overtaken, again and again, he had pestered his father for counsel until they were both weary of it. Now that he has a consort to pester instead, his father sleeps. They have each found their own sort of peace.

And oh, how he does _love_ to pester her. He reaches down, running a hand over her outstretched arm, trailing lower until the pads of his fingers find the puckered bud of her nipple, squeezing it until she whimpers. Teasing her brings him great amusement, he enjoys so to see her jump and blush and gasp and giggle and scold him. He musses her gowns and steals food from her plate, pinches her and nips at her and sweeps her into his arms to tousle her hair and grope at her thighs until she is flustered before letting her go again. Such games always end favorably before the night is through.

She mouths him again through his garment and his hand moves from her chest to that silky dark hair, gripping, pulling with exactly the amount of force he knows will have her dripping, have her cunt clenching in anticipation, waiting for him to plunge inside. He remembers how she grips him, as though she cannot bear his retreat, remembers the slick tightness of her flesh sliding over his.

Finally she seeks his bare skin, freeing him eagerly from his clothing and descending immediately, her lips to the side of his shaft. She kisses him wetly then moves lower, sliding her tongue from base to tip with an appreciative moan. His lady grips him by the root with both hands as she licks away a bead of moisture, circling his tip before slowly taking it into her mouth. 

She cannot take much, but he is _very_ appreciative of her efforts. Her pink lips are sensuously stretched around him, her jaw opened wide. She looks so very lovely this way, he thinks, and imagines again for a moment that blood drips down her beguiling face. He tugs at her hair, pulling her up to run his own tongue across her cheek, fantasizing that he tastes the blood of her kill. The image excites him and he directs her back down, watching as she opens her mouth for him, as she welcomes him to take her in any way he pleases.

He feels suction from her and moves to press in as far as he can, holding her head tenderly but firmly, feels her loosen her tongue and relax her jaw, inviting him to find her throat. He works himself inside slowly but she is less keen to be gentle and rocks forward even as he is the one who chokes. Her lips slide as she raises and lowers them, gripping his base as she strokes him, allowing him to bump her throat roughly. She has worked hard during their time together to give him this, to be able to take even _this_ much of him into her mouth. 

It is a marvelous sensation, but what it really does is make him desperate to feel her other lips stretch for him, to find the place in her body where he can submerge himself completely and drown inside of her, again and again. He watches her pull away, flick him with her tongue, sink back down. Were he not so anxious to join with her he thinks he could watch this forever.

This pleasure she gives him is like worship, on her knees before his throne. It is like the worship he pays her with his own flesh, his own tongue as she cries out for his heat, his passion, his possession. He feels like crying out for her now, instead he reaches for her with both hands. The one in her hair tightens, pulls up as she releases him with a wet _pop_ , the other snakes around her ribs as he leans down to retrieve her. 

Her weight seems so slight that he thinks she must have hollow bones like a bird, she is so easy for him to lift. He enjoys this too, the way she lets him hold her and move her limbs, the way she allows him control of her form in these moments. She trusts him so utterly.

He is still sprawled, one leg over his seat's stone arm as he pulls her to his lap and he uses the angle to his advantage. He draws his cloven hoof to that arm so that when he sinks inside of her he has leverage to push _hard_ , so deep that now _she_ is choking, as though he fills her so completely that there is no room left in her body for air.

This, _this_ is what he needs, what he craves most, this oneness, this wet heat that steals his breath and cradles him as he spirals. He thrusts up into her quickly, brutally, drinking in her shrieks and moans as he jars her, watching her breasts bounce next to the diamond sash and her eyes roll back in her head, hands on his broad shoulders. His claws prick her thighs as his hands grip her tighter, pushing her down harder, their bodies crashing frantically as he wonders how loudly he can make her scream. 

His answer comes with a rush of her body's sweetest fluids, that precious nectar which bathes him in her warmth, her scent, her love. It gratifies him that he is the only one to have ever tasted this sweetness, that no other has drunk from the fount of her completion. He wants to be the only thought in her head, wants to know that _she_ knows, absolutely, that no other could satisfy her now, not after knowing him as a lover. He endeavors to show her as often as possible.

His hand runs up her spine, finding the cold, thick silver chain that fastens the jewels to her body. He clutches it, tightening the band around her chest, holding her up with it as he continues to snap his hips into hers. Such a sight she is, trussed up in diamonds and falling to pieces around his own stiff need, spiraling locks of black hair swaying, caressing her glowing skin.

He looks down, watching as her nether lips grip him, as they stretch and drag and swallow him again. Her flesh is almost as red as his, she is so engorged, and he reaches the hand not holding the chain to stroke her here. He cannot help himself, the call of her slick, swollen petals is too strong a temptation to resist. He slides his fingers around where their bodies are connected, feeling her taught skin here, another place where she has worked hard to accept him easily. They are still a snug fit, as he suspects they always will be. She is so tiny.

Her eyes find his, large and dark, fluttering as she gasps. The look in them makes him need her skin, need to crush her against his chest and let the diamonds chafe between them as his hands roam her back and thighs and his hips keep rhythm. With her lying against him at this angle her most sensitive bud slides up against the ridge of his pubis in a way that he knows will push her over the edge again soon. He feels the gentle bump of it as he grinds against her, listens to the whimpers that escape her when he angles up a bit harder, rubs intentionally at it and presses his hands down on the lushness of her curves as he feels her inner muscles begin to flutter.

The diamonds remind him of the first time he touched her, the rush of surrounding her completely, creeping under her skin and filling her in that way for such a brief moment. Suddenly he is desperate for the sensation again, cannot fathom why he has not done it since. 

He reaches towards her with his spirit, allows his shadows to infiltrate her, consume her as he did when first he thought to seduce her. Her gasp is sharp and her moan is loud, he has entered her right at her crest and now follows, so overcome by this new closeness and her contractions that he could not have prevented it if he tried.

It is glorious, his ecstasy, and he has never felt more complete. He cannot let go of her, cannot stop his pelvis from pumping into hers, cannot stop himself from invading her spirit as he invades her body, finding that she is begging for him not to leave anyhow. He loves it when she begs.

Her lips are hungry as she kisses him, allowing him the joy of breathing in her sobs, her shaky pleas for him to keep holding her, devouring her, claiming her as his own. She always promises him forever, just so long as he holds her tightly enough.

He will never let her go.

 _Never_.

His shadows surge around and inside of her and he pulls back to watch as the blackness overtakes her lips, darkens the warm mahogany of her irises to jet. He sees himself pulsing through her veins, watches as Darkness spiders under her skin and puffs out of her slack mouth with every heaving breath. 

He thinks that he has never seen anything quite so beautiful in the whole of his miserable existence. 

Watching her this way is overwhelming and he can see that she too is deeply moved, shuddering and gazing at him as though he is her entire universe, as though she will die if he pulls out of her now, if he so much as looks away, so he does not.

Her entire body seizes and he must hold her through the violence of her rapture, keep her steadily with him even as his own thighs tense and he cannot prevent himself from bucking against her, lifting her as he curls, his neck stretching to bring their faces close as he empties himself. It is like nothing they have shared before, like nothing he has _ever_ known. His vision blurs and he hears her strangled cry, feels her rake her nails down his chest as he presses them tightly together. It seems to go on forever as she anchors herself on his rocking hips, leaning forward to sink her teeth into his neck. The sharp sting has him throbbing harder, gasping and groaning as she knows it will.

At some point he finds that his leg has slipped back over his throne's arm and his lady has collapsed against him completely. They are both breathing hard, lost to euphoria. She lifts her head a little to kiss him gently and he takes a last look at the shadows in her eyes before he starts to pull them back but she gasps, shaking her head in protest.

“No, not yet. Stay inside of me a little longer,” she implores, pressing her hips down on his to emphasize her request. 

And so he stays, holding her to him, reveling in all the ways she holds him back. 

She is perfect and she is his, and he will dance with her until the end of time.

**Author's Note:**

> It is my greatest hope through this series that Darkness seems in character and that at the same time this romance is 100% believable even though he is literally the devil. I want that very, very badly and hope that this piece illistrates how I see him well enough.


End file.
